Stingray Billionaire: The Complete Series (An Alpha Billionaire Romance) (2 page)

“Call me
Nick,” he says. “Are you all right? You fainted.”

I sit
up, almost headbutting him in the process. “You’re Nick Scipio,” I repeat.

He
smiles. “So, I was thinking a nice, quiet place with plenty of candles, a
friendly atmosphere—that is, if you don’t think that’s too forward of me.”

I was
voted most outgoing in high school, but the only thing I can think to say to
this stranger is, “Uh…”

“Or,” he
says, “if you’d prefer something where there’s not so much pressure on the
conversation, we could always go paintballing.”

Nikolai—Nick
Scipio isn’t a local, but I’d recognize him anywhere. He’s been on the news
enough over the last year or so; I can’t imagine anyone with a TV wouldn’t know
who he is.

“Paintballing?”
I ask.

“Just
checking to see if you’re still paying attention,” he says and smiles. “So,
Ellie—”

I
interrupt, “How do you know my name?”

“I had
you followed,” he says. “I bribed a guy from the DOJ to have a team keep an eye
on you, let me know any sordid details, that sort of thing.”

The
reason I’m not laughing is that Nick Scipio, along with being particularly
recognizable, is also one of the richest men in the country. After Stingray
Next Generation Technologies—his company—went public, he went from being a
college dropout to being a billionaire overnight.

They’re
making a movie about it.

It was
the biggest thing like that since Zuckerberg. I wonder if the two know each
other. Of course, they do. All those guys know each other.

“Ellie?”
Nick Scipio asks. “Are you okay? You’ve been staring off into space awhile.”

“What
are you doing here?” I blurt.

“I was
just joking about having you followed,” he says. “I got your name off your
nametag.”

I look
down. Upside down, my badge says 31773. Troy’s label maker only does numbers. I
look up again.

“You
know, you should probably get a new one of those made,” he says. “I got it
pretty quick, but I imagine it’s the kind of thing that’ll give unscrupulous
men an ostensibly justifiable reason to stare at your chest.”

“And
you’re not one of those ‘unscrupulous men,’ I take it?” I ask.

“Scruples
can be overrated,” he says. “No, I wasn’t staring at your chest.”

“Mr. Scipio …” I start.

What the hell is Nick
Scipio doing in my store asking me on a date?

“Mr. Scipio,” I repeat.

“Please,” he says, “call
me Nick. Let me help you up off the ground, or are you still feeling
lightheaded?”

I rise, a hand which has
to be worth at least a few hundred million helping me. “Nick,” I say. “I’m
sorry, but I don’t understand what’s supposed to be happening here. If this is
one of those hidden camera shows, I think you already got your footage when I
saw who you were and hit the ground.”

“No cameras,” he says. “I
honestly just wanted to stop in and see if you might like to go out
sometime
.”

It’s exactly my luck that
the only time in my life I’d meet a billionaire, he’d screw with me like this.
What’s worse, and I know this is silly, but the most persistent thought in my
head right now is that if I don’t sell half the store before this man leaves,
it’ll be my head.

“Like I said, we don’t
have any Fabergé,” I speak, “but I’m sure we could find something in here to
suit you.”

“Really,” he says, “I’m
not here to look at your wares. I came by
a
Spanish
restaurant on my way
to
town.
I haven’t been inside of it yet, but it
looks
nice enough.”

“I don’t get it,” I tell
him.

“You’ve never been
there?” he asks. “I think the place was called Carne Celeste. If I remember
accurately
, I believe that’s ‘Heavenly
Meat.'
I don’t
know;
I
guess it’s better before you translate it.
W
hat do you think?”

What do I think? I think
someone’s screwing with me. Only, I don’t know anyone with the kind of
connections to get a call through to this man’s
office
, much less convince him to come all the way up to Mulholland
just to mess with my head.

I think, if anything, the
guy’s just cruising through town on his way somewhere else, saw something he
liked in the window, and thought he’d try it on. No, I’m not flattered that I’m
the thing.

If the man’s serious at
all, he’s looking for a groupie. I’m not a groupie.

You see all the time how
celebrities
, especially
moneyed
business tycoons,
will descend on
a poor
, unsuspecting
young woman only to use her for what they think she’s worth and then dump her.
There’s
almost always
a
story in the tabloids about how the woman was “crazy” or “clingy”
when all that happened was that the woman was dumb enough to say “yes” when a
man like this one came through the door.

The thing a guy like Nick
Scipio banks on is that whatever woman he’s talking to is going to be so
stupidly impressed by how much money he has that she’ll start thinking it’d be
worth it to
get treated
like that. After
all, the guy’s loaded, right?

Most people would do any
number of things to be thrown away by a man like this.

Well,
not me. Either he’s just screwing with me now, or he’s trying to
screw
me a different way half an hour from now.
Either way, I’m not interested.

I mean to tell him all of
this, but the only thing I manage to get out of my mouth is, “Uh…”

Chapter
Two

Office Space

Nick

This
afternoon wasn’t precisely the moment I’d hoped, but
Ellie did agree to dinner—once she started speaking in
people
words again.

The fame, the stories in
the press, the public perception that I wield some immense amount of power and
that
if
there is some unholy cabal
running the world, I’m probably on it: I know I’m supposed to hate it. It’s a
great timesaver, though. I never have to wait in line for anything.

Naturally, there are
times when it does get in the way.

For instance, right now.
I’m sitting in the restaurant, working on my third round of free chips and
salsa and people are starting to stare.

I suspect this afternoon
would have gone quite a bit differently if nobody had ever bothered to take my
picture or write down my name. If nothing else, I’m sure Ellie wouldn’t have
fainted and then stood me up
at
this
restaurant.

The waiter comes over and
compliments me on my
cell phone
. When I
tell him, “Oh, it’s great. Believe it or not, I can order a cruise missile
strike with the touch of a button,” he just stands there a minute.

People sometimes tell me
I’ve got
a dark
sense of humor, but that
line tickles me.

“Don’t worry,” I
say
to the young man with the rather pale face
and the pitcher of ice water, “I’m pretty excited about the free chips. I think
I’ll spare
the restaurant
.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

His nametag
says
Daryl.

“Daryl, I wonder if you
could help me with something,” I say.

“Anything, sir,” he says.
His voice is quivering almost as much as his hands.
If he
makes it back to the kitchen with half the water that used to
be in the pitcher, it’ll be a hell of a feat.

I glance around and lean
toward the young man. He leans
forward to match
me, and in a slow, even tone, I ask, “Could I get some more salsa?”

It takes
a few seconds for Daryl the waiter to process that I’m not going to threaten to
blow up anything. I think the reason that particular gag amuses me to the
extent it does is that people are so quick to believe I’ve got missile codes
just because I have a multi-billion dollar corporation under me.

As I
think about it; I do have the phone numbers of more than a few senators and
congresspeople in the phone sitting so calmly on the Formica table in front of
me. There are a couple of governors in there as well, but they only call when
they want something, and I’m pretty sure they have little to do with offensive
strikes.

I guess
if I wanted to, though, I could make it happen.

That’s a
realization I’m not likely to forget.

“Oh,
sir,” Daryl the waiter says. “Yes, sir.”

He
scampers off, and I allow myself the slightest of smiles. Even with the
recognition of my almost frightening and disproportionate amount of power,
however, I’m still a guy sitting alone in a restaurant.

Daryl
comes back to the table, and I’m pretty sure he stole the salsa he’s now
putting in front of me from that older couple’s table in the corner. “Here you
go, sir,” Daryl says and tries to make a quick escape.

I don’t
let him. “Hey, Daryl,” I say. He freezes midstep, walking away from me.

“Yeah?”
he asks, turning around.

If I
couldn’t see all the eyes set on me right now, I bet I’d still be able to feel
them.

“Would
you mind coming over here a second?” I ask. “I prefer not to shout.”

Too
quick for dignity, Daryl’s at my table, and I think if there is a next time,
I’ll offer to take Ellie somewhere a bit less public. If this is uncomfortable
for me, I can only imagine it must be that much more painful to watch. When
it’s happening to someone else, you don’t have the illusion you can do anything
about it.

Then again, she lucked out
by not coming. It was a brilliant move. I’m starting to believe I should have
done the same.

“Did you need something?”
Daryl asks.

“Yeah, could I have
the
check?” I ask.

Daryl shakes his
head
but doesn’t say anything.

“Daryl, if you’re trying
to communicate something to me, I don’t follow,” I say.

He keeps shaking his
head. “The chips and salsa are free,” he says.

“The water?” I ask.

“Free,” Daryl answers.

“Well then, I suppose all
that’s left is to say good evening,” I tell
Daryl.
I’m almost
sure
I hear a few scattered
voices echoing my final two words.

When people
want to
impress you or make themselves out to
be a kindred spirit,
the first thing they’ll do
is learn how to
agree with everything you say. When you’re not giving
them any opinions, the more ardent will
just
repeat the last few words you say while mirroring your gestures and nodding
while you talk.

What I’ve never
understood is how these people assume I’m a decent person. Most of the
billionaires
I’ve met are the most callous,
craven bastards with whom I’ve ever had the misfortune to share a room.

With millionaires, it’s
more of a mixed bag.

“Good evening,” Daryl
says,
and I finally feel like I can get up
without committing some crime, though my eyes are on Daryl as I grab my cell
phone off the table.

When I’m on the spot like
this, I always feel like I’m supposed to say something even when logic clearly
shows otherwise. “You stay out of trouble,” I tell Daryl. “Stay in school and
don’t do drugs, unless they’re
legal,
or
you have a prescription, but even then, you know,” I say, “go easy.”

Sometimes I forget how
much I hated this town.

Finally leaving the
table—and a generous tip—I endure a few autographs before I make it to the
door. It’s not that I’m stuck up: I’d just like to leave this restaurant as
quickly as possible.

After
I’ve finally signed almost everything offered me—I draw the metaphorical line
at underwear
—I walk out the door, almost running into Ellie.

“You’re here,” she says,
her face a certain shade of embarrassed. “
I
thought you’d have left by now.
”

“I didn’t
believe you were
coming,” I answer. “We can
head inside if you want, but I’m assuming you wouldn’t be out here right now if
there
weren't
some conflicting feelings.
Can I tell you something that might take the pressure off, though?” I ask.

She’s crossing her arms,
turned partially away from me. “What?” she asks.

“I just want dinner,” I
tell her. “Me being who I am—I’m assuming that’s what’s bothering you?”

She nods. “It’s a little
weird having a
big-time
CEO walk into
your nothing shop in the middle of nowhere and ask you out for dinner at the
middling of three restaurants in the village,” she says. “It makes me wonder
what it is you
actually
want.”

Ellie’s
elbow-length
, straight, auburn hair catches a
little in the breeze, and now she’s brushing it out of her almost turquoise
eyes. Sure, the
romantic
lighting is
provided by the flashing green and red neon sign in the window next to us, but
she’s enough to leave me searching for words.

“It’s dinner,” I tell
her. “Well, dinner and your company
during
that dinner
are
what I was hoping for, if
you want to get specific, but that’s the end of the plot.”

“You sound like someone
who’s used to people distrusting you,” she says.

I smile, but I hold back
my chuckle. “Nobody owns a company and doesn’t have enemies,” I tell her.

“But out here, where the
richest family in town is the one that runs the gas station and has a two-level
house
and
a basement instead of a
two-level house
including
the
basement
, it’s different, right?” she asks.
“You don’t have
any
enemies out here
because the only thing people know about you is the money. Because of that,
you’re supposed to be able
just to walk
into a shop, pick a girl, and then that’s that until you get sick of her, but
that’s not me. You walked into the wrong
store
and picked the wrong woman if you think I’m going to throw myself at you
because you’re in the newspaper.”

“You guys get
newspapers
out here?” I ask. If
they ever replace me
as
CEO,
it’ll be because I find the worst moments to tell jokes.

Her eyes narrow and she
shakes her head at me. I just want to have dinner and a conversation with
Ellie, but there’s a real and growing risk of me getting punched in the neck.

“I make jokes when I’m on
the spot,” I tell her. “It’s a character flaw. It’s pretty universally
despised, and I apologize.”

“Hey, look,” she says,
“it’s magically all better now even though you still haven’t answered my
original question.”

I’m looking up and to the
left for my memory, but I don’t find it. “I’m sorry,” I say, “to which question
are you referring?”

“Listen,
Nikolai—Nick,” she says, reaching her hand out to shake mine, “it’s been real
interesting getting to know you. And I’m sure the people in town will be
telling their great-grandchildren about way back when, but I don’t think this
was such a good idea.”

I take a deep breath and
blow it out. “Okay,” I say. “I’m sorry that’s the way you feel, but I’m not
going to press the issue. I am going to be in town for a while, but I can give
you my card if you change your mind. That’s up to you.”

It’s unclear whether it’s
because she wants a
souvenir
of that time
she told me off or if she might change her mind. She doesn’t say. Regardless,
when I pull the card out of the inside pocket of my suit coat, she takes it.

Walking away now, I don’t
know how this is going to end, only that it hasn’t yet. It’s hard to convince
someone you’re
a regular
person who just
got on board with
an excellent
idea and
that idea happened to make a lot of money, but that’s what happened. That’s
what and who I am.

She has to be the one to
make the decision if she’s going to get invested enough to find that out,
though. I can’t force her into believing I’m
a
good man
.

At this point, I’d love
to be the
hard
one who’s going to tell
this part of the story to his friends as, “You gotta show ‘em you’re willing to
walk away: It’s business 101,” or something like that. If that were the kind of
nonsense going through my head, I wouldn’t have this all-encompassing
insecurity that I
honestly
haven’t felt
in a very, very long time.

Of course, then I’d also
be a callous jerk, and from what I hear, that comes with its
own
set of problems. I’m most of the way down
the block before I give in to my curiosity and look back toward the restaurant.

Ellie’s still in front of
Carne
Celeste.
She’s not
watching
me go, though. She has a cell phone in
her
hand,
and it
appears that
she’s referencing a business card,
undoubtedly
mine.

There’s still no way to
know whether she’s considering calling me at some point or if she just wants to
have something to show her friends when she’s talking about how pompous I am.
As I turn back to face the street ahead, though, I can’t help feeling I’ve
succeeded in a rather profound way.

There’s nothing left for
me to do tonight—in town,
anyway
. Back at
the Plimpington Hotel, though, there’s a lot that still needs to get done.

When the owner of the
hotel said that we could rent out the whole place, I answered that wouldn’t be
necessary. He said, “Okay,” and we moved on with the specifics.

When he offered again
later in the conversation, I was curious, but still rejected the idea. He
didn’t know I was considering making Mulholland Stingray’s new base of
operations, and even if he did, he would have also learned there are only about
two dozen people out here with me. The bulk of Stingray and all of its non-me
higher ups are still back in Manhattan, and even if I do find what I’m looking
for in Mulholland, a lot of those people are going to stay right where they
are.

Of course, the board
will
have to relocate, or I’ll be the
one who has to travel to every morning meeting out of state. That part’s
unavoidable, but I’m not looking to abandon New York.

When the owner of the
hotel
insisted
that we have the place
to ourselves, but that the only way to do that would be to rent out the whole
place, I finally got the message.